The night before chemotherapy
Tomorrow is it, day one of my first round of chemotherapy. I'd be lying to you if I said I was okay, or that I was calm, or ready. Because I'm none of those things. I haven't even fully come to terms with my diagnosis. There's been no time, and getting to this point as fast as possible has quite literally been a case of life and death. I'm exhausted, I'm anxious, I can't sleep.
Tomorrow beings answers to important questions like how will I tolerate chemotherapy, what are my side effects going to be like, how careful am I going to have to be.
Tomorrow brings hope. The only way out of this for me is through the cancer centre, through these appointments. It's absolutely terrifying, every single part of this has been terrifying. Every new pain has been the terror of further spread. Every Covid-19 type symptom for months terrified me that I'd delay this process (and now will cause anxiety because I'm about to become immunocompromised). Every single thing that is slightly abnormal is a new horror. And they will all remain horrors, the thing that has replaced university exams or abusive Target liquidation customers as the antagonist of my stress dreams. But, tomorrow, I also to start striking back. And that's not nothing.
